Aftermath
by Natsushi
Summary: Snippets of John's life after Sherlock jumps. Will contain the solution to the Final Problem, hopefully. Chapter 8 is up!
1. The Wrong Aftermath

A/N: This is my first Sherlock story. I recently discovered the show about a month or so ago. I am _hooked_.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, BBC and SACD do.

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**Chapter One: The Wrong Aftermath**

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So many things were just wrong. John stared at the scattered boxes and bags around him. He had been in medicine long enough to know that IT wasn't premeditated. Sherlock adored clever displays he would've made a show of his death too. And he wouldn't have made John watch like that. He wouldn't have cried. That was a big thing. In the past year, the only time John had ever seen tears on the deceased consulting detective was while he was acting or if John had had a flight of fancy and was cooking with actual onions.

And of course that jerk Moriarty was found dead there. Also ruled suicide by Scotland Yard, and the camera atop the roof of St. Bart's. That camera had shown the scuffle, shown that Moriarty pulled his own trigger. And it had shown Sherlock as distressed as a mother hen. John smiled listlessly, folding more of his friend's clothes into the box. The only time Sherlock Holmes was distressed was if he didn't get his drug/case fix.

John would give anything to get even a high Sherlock back. Somehow, in the year that they'd known each other, John had grown to love Sherlock. No it wasn't romantic love. Nor sexual. It was a fraternal bond sparked by a mutual need for adventure and lunacy. A bond he'd never got to share with his sister. A bond that he could no longer share with his friends in the armed forces—most of them were gone anyway.

This one hit was too close to home. Somehow after _finally _putting the broken pieces of his life back together it hurt him even more. It was just one time too many.

John folded in another silk shirt. Where on earth did Sherlock get the money for this? Another question he'd never get a flashy, dramatic, stuck up explanation for. Like WHY? _Why_had Sherlock jumped?

Six months had passed and John was only now drawing enough courage to clean out the other half of 221B. For the most part it had been Mrs. Hudson, with some help from Molly and Greg (who promised to overlook any and all drugs) but all of them insisted that John take care of the personal bits. They were friends where John was family. And they insisted that he needed the closure.

So here he was, war hardened soldier, promising doctor, who couldn't even bring himself to look at Sherlock's bedroom door without his chest constricting. _How_he did it for six months was a mystery that the great Sherlock Holmes wasn't there to solve anymore.

A box under the bed revealed ready-to-go syringes. A stash he hadn't found. He wondered what it would be like to just shove away social norms and just let his mind free, like Sherlock kept insisting.

He uncapped the needle. Judging by the amounts, a single plunge would make him forget for quite a while. Two could take him to his dead best friend. John sniffed, the moment over. Stupidity at its finest. He recapped the needle. There was no way he could make the same decision he'd been telling Sherlock to stop all that time. Then Sherlock would've been right and John wrong. And John _had_ to be right, because then he could somehow, someday prove that Sherlock was _not_ a fraud. He was _not_ wrong. Moriarty had existed. John was not wrong.

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So? What do you all think? My writing has changed so much in these past few years. Please R&R!


	2. Painfully Onwards

**Chapter Two: Painfully Onwards**

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It had been 14 months since Sherlock had died. There he said it. Or thought it. Whatever. John had slowly developed a schedule, made some friends, broken away from everything he could that would remind him of the consulting detective. Sherlock's things had been systematically packed away, stored in boxes in the detective's room at 221B. A few things John left out-the skull on the mantle, the violin by the window, his bathrobe on the hall hook, some (clean) test tubes in the kitchen...little reminders to never forget his best friend.

It still hurt, that everyone still believed Sherlock a fake, and so John refused to speak on the subject. If anyone was idiot enough to mention such impossible theories in his presence, they would find themselves on the receiving end of his withering Watson Glare. And should they dare continue they would find our out just how strong the army doctor was where his family was concerned.

John and Lestrade-well, Greg now-had become regular hangouts. It wasn't uncommon to find them both together on Saturday night siting at the pub or at some event. At first it had been a way to break away from the tough reality that _he really was gone_. Gradually, though, they came to bond over other things-football, shooting techniques, an affinity for intrigue.

His friend Mike from the hospital had come over to talk too. After all, it was he who had introduced Sherlock and John. Perhaps it was his guilt or perhaps he realized that John's talents were wasted at a small clinic, but Mike offered him a job at the hospital. John had accepted, but the first few weeks had been trying. He had _jumped _from St. Bartholomew Hospital's roof after all. But that association with the hospital was slowly being replaced by memories of lunch with Molly, diagnoses with the beautiful Dr. Mary Morston, and jokes with his new colleagues. John still was wary of Molly's lab and the morgue. No matter what, those were two places he would always associate with Sherlock. That was where they met. Strange, how their "relationship" had started and ended in the same building.

Somehow his sister Harry had gotten wind of his situation, and she'd been making an extra effort to reach out to him, even so far as to refuse meeting at a bar so that she would be sober company. It was good, to have his sister back to normal after so many years.

Yes. Had this been pre-Sherlock, everything he wanted or needed would be there in his life. Now, he was content. It took a while to get over it all, and there were still nights he imagined the violin from the sitting room, but John wad making some headway. Content. But not happy. He could smile, laugh, but that spark in his eyes was gone. Everyone could see that. When Sherlock had jumped, he'd taken the last bit of John's joy, his hope, with him.

Too many times had the ever-giving John Watson been faced with tragedy. Sure, he'd asked for it, but sometimes, one doesn't know one's own strength. And John had grossly overestimated his. Maybe if he had some time to prepare, he could've made it, but he didn't. And now he lived on with a crushed spirit. There, but broken.

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A/N: So that's it for now. Stay tuned for more! I plan on making this a pretty long story, and it won't always be all angsty and sad like this.


	3. Coincidence

**Chapter Three: Coincidence**

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"Dr. Watson to Recovery 7. Dr. Watson to Recovery 7," the disembodied voice repeated.

"Yes, I know..." John mumbled, thumbing through a stack of files. Goodness, for such a high-tech, sophisticated hospital, Bart's was seriously understaffed in caregivers. Finding the one he needed, he raced down the hall to the staircase. Faster than the elevator and less crowded. He skimmed the file during the 3-storey journey. Name withheld. Odd. He paused on the stairs. _Patient Number: 0221B_. Creepy. A small voice in his head whispered "Sherlock!" but he ignored it. Probably just a coincidence. All patients were given a four-digit and one letter ID number. Just a coincidence. Slightly shaken, John continued to Recovery 7. This wasn't his patient, the current doctor had been replaced for some reason, which meant that John would have to backtrack, and the patient would get upset. Broken leg, some cracked ribs, mild concussion from a car accident. It was all very vague, for a doctor's report.

John opened the door to Recovery 7 and promptly dropped his papers. "YOU! What are you doing here?"

"Calm down," Mycroft Holmes said, putting his arms in the air, in position of surrender. "I just wanted to be treated by someone I trust." 'Treated' may not have been the best word, however. The elder—and now only—Holmes had an arm and a foot in a cast, bandage across his forehead and John could see some more peeking out from under his hospital gown. Mycroft had already been treated, probably while unconscious. Or he would've had some control over it all, and John would've been here earlier.

"You don't trust anyone," John scowled, picking up the fallen papers "Couldn't you have just called or sent an text message? Like a normal human?"

Mycroft smiled, it was creepy. "Actually, I'm here as a patient. Honestly. These bandages are authentic, Doctor. My car, hmm, let's say it _skid _into a ravine. And we won't say why, okay?"

John rolled his eyes. Of course they were authentic. It was hard to fake injuries like that. Ah, the business of the British government. "Why not the original doctor?"

"Well, if you were here why would I go with another?"

"And you've reached another level of insane in my book, Mycroft Holmes." John sighed. Clearly the man had ulterior motives, "Let's get this over with. With what you _can_ tell me, what happened?"

"I also wanted to see how you were."

"Ah. There's the answer."

"Believe it or not, Dr. Watson, I really did ask for you because I wanted to be in good hands. You're a reputable doctor, as well as my acquaintance."

"Hmm, let's get to doctoring then. What happened? What's broken?"

* * *

Mycroft noticed John's hesitation as the latter was leaving the room. "What do you want to ask me?"

"You know it's extremely creepy and…unnerving when you do that?"

"What? Perception? It's a useful skill. Although you _were_ making it easy right now, I thought you'd be used to it." He clamped his lips as soon as the words left his mouth. That was not right. No, no, no. Mycroft Holmes was the most tactful man in all of England. "Sorry," he said after a moment. Mycroft swore he could see John's façade cracking. Chalking up his lapse to painkillers, he continued, "Ahem. Um, your question?"

John could see no actual way of leaving, even though all he wanted to do right now was _not see Mycroft Holmes_. He cleared his throat, "I was wondering…if you purposely got your patient ID to be 0221B?"

The bedridden Holmes glanced at his hospital bracelet to check. "Well, well! What a coincidence!" He had happy surprise written all over his face.

John left without another word.


	4. Good

**Chapter Four****: Good**

"…Happy Birthday to youuuuu!" finished the merry group. John sat in the middle, blushing as furiously as a teenage girl. Obviously it was his birthday, and when Mrs. Hudson suggested a small dinner party, he had expected Molly and Greg, maybe the neighbors. He had not expected Drs. Mary and Stamford and two other colleagues, _five_ of his friends from university, and earlier in the day half of his regiment had stopped by on break. Even _Mycroft_ had shown up to surprise John with the birthday cake, though he hadn't stayed. He promised himself he wouldn't ask, but he was sure that the cake cost about a week's wages. To say John was awestruck was an understatement. He was speechless when he found out that Donovan and Anderson had sent cards via Greg. There really should be a word meaning awestruck + speechless.

"Now dear, make a wish and blow out the candles!" Mrs. Hudson pushed forward the large chocolate confection. He was glad they'd only decided to put five candles on the cake: four large ones and one small, for the 41 years John Hamish Watson was. Truthfully, he was amazed he'd survived this long, what with the insane schedules and habits that came with being in the military and medical field, he had unofficially placed his end at age 38. He was glad to be here. Mrs. Hudson had gone all out and made an even more scrumptious meal than usual and Harry, who was away on a business trip, had sent him a brand-new camera to capture all of this day on film.

The only thing missing from this picture was his best friend. He smiled, it was always weird to say that a sociopath, even a high-functioning one, was your best friend. But today had been a _good_ day, one in a string of many where 221B didn't feel empty and he didn't feel sad or guilty that he was here and Sherlock Holmes wasn't.

_I wish every day could be a good day._

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A/N: This one was just small and whimsical. I meant to upload it yesterday, it's been done for almost a week. But I forgot. Anywho. If anyone has any ideas they'd like me to put in, just post it in a review!_  
_

Coming up is (probably) going to be a multi-chapter arc.


	5. Heartstopping

**Chapter Five: Heartstopping**

**Here is where some drama begins. Being American, I'm going to feel smart and use "Accident and Emergency/A&E" which is "British" for "Emergency Room/ER". Furthermore, I'm going to apologize for my lack of knowledge of St. Bart's and hospitals & medicine in general. I'm not in the medical field, and (luckily) haven't spent too much time in a hospital. Most of my knowledge stems from scattered episodes of _House_.**

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It was a normal day at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. John had reviewed four patients' cases in the morning, ate a small lunch in the hospital's cafeteria, sorted through paperwork for another two hours, and was on his way to finish up with his last few patients. Nothing new, just record progress and note any changes, the average life for the physician on a cardio research/treatment team.

It was a normal day until he met with his last patient. She was a little girl, seven years old last week, with congenital heart defect. Short, bright-eyed, always wore her red hair in pigtails, and always told jokes until John laughed with her. Against the doctors' wishes, the girl's parents had signed up for her to be treated here. The doctors told them that type of work they did wasn't really suited for children her age. But the parents—and the child herself—insisted. Bart's was their last hope. That was last year. At first, there was little change. By the eighth month, she was showing more signs of recession than some of the other patients. Today, the doctors' fears were realized. Whatever was in the medicine (John didn't work with those particulars) had caused her frail body to crash on itself. Her lungs were stopping at an alarming rate, her heart was beating at three times its normal speed.

"She needs urgent care." John gasped as soon as he realized what was going on. He called for an ambulance, and then paged the rest of the team. The girl needed an A&E ASAP. The one downstairs wasn't equipped to deal with this, especially for a child. He did what he could to jot down vitals, secure her charts, and anything to help while she waited to get to trauma care. Thankfully, within five minutes of his call, a helivac would arrived to take her to the nearest A&E.

"A h-helivac?" John stammered into the handset. Helivacs would come on the roof. John did not know if he could handle being on this particular roof.

"Yes." Came the voice on the other end of the phone. "Have the patient, her family members and accompanying doctors upstairs STAT."

John tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. The small voice in his head that kept track of all of his lost friends started speaking indistinctly. No, no, no. He couldn't let it rule his life. His greater conscience kicked in common sense: The others would head straight to the other hospital, he _had _to go with her. Someone with her medical record had to be there. The poor child's parents were sobbing next to her. Brave up, John. You are an Army Doctor. She needs you. _Go_. His brain reverted to the battle-mode. He called up a nearby nursing student to help him move the girl upstairs. Eyes on the ground. Stretcher. Left turn. Elevator. You've been here. No big deal. Go. Walk. Right turn. Open air. Don't look to the right.

Exactly forty-eight seconds later, a whirring helicopter roared into view. Exactly one hundred and two seconds later, everyone was aboard the helivac and flying away. The unpleasant rooftop left far below.


	6. Interlude One: Get M:riarty

A/N: I am SO sorry I haven't updated in so long. I was busy and my fanfic muse left, but it's back now. And hopefully it will stay for a while! Please excuse or correct any errors I made about the British government. And please review! If no one's reading I have no reason to continue. I will happily read any comments, criticism, and advice.

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**Chapter Six: ~Interlude One~Get M:)riarty**

Sherlock Holmes was not easily impressed. Nature, wealth, others' intelligence, the world, children, criminals. Sherlock could walk through and past all of those without a scarce glance. Unless they were interesting, then he could stop and stare, poke and prod for a little while. If it was _very_ interesting, he might stick with it for a long while.

A few months after that day on the rooftop, Sherlock found himself gallivanting around London's government buildings. He didn't like it one bit. The clues all lead here. But _why_? _What_ was Moriarty hiding in the government this time? A scrap of news had led him to the apartment of a Downing Street clerk. A whisper drove him to the alleys of Whitehall. It didn't make any sense! What did an old wine shop have to do with the British Government? And how did a damp, old 1998 Oxford yearbook fit into this? Growling to himself (and unknowingly scaring passerby), Sherlock returned to the decrepit motel room in which he was currently living.

All night, he pondered and paced and thought and talked and huffed and puffed. What was the connection? University yearbook, everyone in it was in their mid-thirties now. The government. Alcohol. No…wine. Wait, maybe the store itself? Unable to use his smartphone, Sherlock had to improvise. The seedy old motel didn't offer internet, so Sherlock had piggybacked on the restaurant next door's. The laptop? He _may_ have stolen it off of the personal effects of a drunken man.

It took fourteen hours of searching and sorting to find a connection between the government and the wine shop. In the late 1970s, it had been the front of a British espionage unit, who had been discovered and scandalized by an over-enthusiastic and nosy yellow journalist. The building had been sold twice after the mission had failed, but it had remained a wine shop. Sherlock now had faces and names to put to the espionage unit. Another six hours of work was put into comparing these people to those in the yearbook. Two potential suspects! It was time to investigate further.

Sherlock jumped up, only to feel lightheaded and a cramp in his neck. John would have reminded him to eat in these past two days. And to change position so he didn't hurt a muscle. He supposed he should have a shower as well…

* * *

"Dylan Waterford." He whispered. He'd cracked it. A name. A man who was on Moriarty's payroll. A man who was on this inside of the British government. Waterford was the son of one of the men in the espionage unit. He knew about the hidden vault under the shop where some old files were hidden. These files were to be kept a secret until certain World War II 'refugees' from Germany could be brought to trial as Nazi operatives. When the unit had been exposed, they 'sold' the shop to someone else in the government until they could get back in. The files couldn't be moved without possibly being found by the journalist. And even the man who bought the shop didn't know about the files. That man had sold the shop to another man in the government—Waterford in disguise. He was ashamed of the way his father had been discovered, never to be able to run a covert mission again or even clear his name. And so he had consulted a criminal to get the files and expose the now-dead Nazis, and bring shame upon the government that had abandoned his father. In return, the consulting criminal demanded intel from the inside. Intel a high-security-clearanced clerk could easily obtain.

One slight problem remained. Waterford worked for a person who worked for Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock had met Dylan once. He had almost deleted him, but had thought better of forgetting one of the people who may potentially kidnap him or John. Now he was glad he didn't. Dylan had been a faithful worker. Obedient to the letter. It was the good ones with the most to hide. But now, how to tell Mycroft? A letter, text, or email was out of the question.

"Hello, brother."

Mycroft Holmes made leaping out of bed seem casual. "Sher-Sherlock?!" the older man dropped the pistol he was holding.

"Good evening, Mycroft."

"It's hardly evening," Mycroft sat on his bed and returned the pistol to its spot under the pillow. When he next faced Sherlock, it was as if returning from the dead was an everyday occurrence. "And what brings you to my bedroom at 3:13 a.m.?"

Sherlock leaned against the wall, just letting his hair brush up against the expensive oil painting that hung on the wall. It would bother Mycroft to no end. "A tip. Dylan Waterford is—was—working for Moriarty."

Mycroft shook his head, "Sherlock, everyone thinks he's a piece of fiction. No one would believe—"

"They'll believe fraud. Embezzlement. Tampering with legal documents." Sherlock interrupted, tossing Mycroft a flash drive whist explaining his findings.

Staring at the piece of machinery, Mycroft considered the situation. This made two things that his impressive network had come up short on. How did he miss these things? How had he missed these connections? And how had his own brother eluded his sources? Either Sherlock had come up with something really clever, or Sherlock had been humoring him all his life. Mycroft didn't like either option. Finally, he asked, "And…you? How? Why?"

"It was me or them," the younger man shrugged.

"Them?"

"Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John."

"And now?"

"Now, you don't tell anyone. _Anyone_. Help me destroy his empire. Then I can go back to the boring land of the living."

Mycroft shook his head. "They all miss you, Sherlock."

"I know. Isn't it revolting?" Sherlock grimaced. But Mycroft could see the wistfulness in his eyes.


	7. Danger

**Chapter Seven: Danger**

Canterwood Hospital was small, as far as London hospitals went. The emergency response team had purposely chosen it. Even though it took an extra few moments to get to, the relatively short patient list increased little Susan Towers' chances of quick treatment. On the way, John rattled off her history and possible risks. As soon as they touched down on the landing pad, the EMTs whisked the little girl off to the A&E. John was at a loss for what to do. He couldn't just leave the girl and her family. And what if he was needed? He figured he might as well wait in the waiting room, easily found if someone called for him, but not in the way. He told the nurse-on-call as much, and took a seat across from Mr. and Mrs. Towers.

"Dr. Watson…" Mrs. Towers trailed off. She was still crying.

John didn't want to hurt her. But John didn't want to lie. "I don't know." He sighed finally. So the three of them prayed.

One Red Bull, two hours, and three M&M packets later, a scrub-clad doctor appeared at the door. "Those for Susan Towers?" he called out. Mr. and Mrs. Towers ran up to him, John followed. "She's made it," the doctor smiled tiredly, "But at the moment, she still needs constant care. There's still a risk of her heart failing again."

"But there's a good chance she's going to be okay?" Mr. Towers pleaded.

"Yes. A good one. But I shouldn't promise. She definitely shouldn't return to the trials. And if she relapses, she is going to need a transplant."

Stifling a sob, Mrs. Towers asked to see her. The surgeon agreed, "Of course. But she is resting now. Depending on the schedule on which the nurses are starting her, they may or may not let you in the room yet. You may wait nearby if that's the case." Once pointed in the direction of a nurse who could take them to the proper ward, the couple left. And after a few exchanges about the patient, the doctor left, too. John sat heavily in a chair. He was tired, and it was past time to go home.

By this time, the waiting room was almost empty. An old Desi couple prayed for someone in one corner. A heavily pregnant woman waited for her turn so she could get her broken arm straightened out. A snow-pale man coughed into a tissue, it was bloody. It had been a while since John was last on the waiting side of the medical field. He had forgotten how miserable it was.

John was signing out to leave when a middle-aged man walked into the A&E. He was a head taller than John, wearing baggy jeans and an unmarked, navy sweatshirt. His hair couldn't been brown or black, but it was too dirty to tell for certain. He was of a sickly pallor, with dark circles under his eyes, and bitten-down nails. Behind him trailed a coughing boy of about ten or eleven years. The boy could have been a miniature of the man. He, too, was wearing jeans, but with an 'I *heart* London' T-shirt. In his arms, a largish blue lunch box.

He didn't know why he noticed all of these at once. John did not think of himself as observant. Not when compared to Sherlock or Mycroft. Heck, Mrs. Hudson probably knew more about the powers of observation than he did (how else did she know if he was hungry before he did?). But something about this pair…Maybe way he walked, maybe the way he looked around, but something about the man unnerved John.

So John was not surprised when the muzzle of a handgun suddenly leveled in front of the pregnant woman's face. Not surprised at all, but he was shocked.

"Everyone on the ground!"

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**A/N: So…originally the girl in _Hearstopping_ didn't have a name. She's the same girl as the one in this chapter, to fix any confusion. **

**Another disclaimer: I don't own Red Bull or M&Ms.  
Once more, please review!**


	8. Hostage

**Chapter Eight: Hostage**

John gaped at the gun. He wasn't afraid of _that_, no. But this was a hospital in _London_. Guns should not be here. It was surreal, like seeing a blue giraffe in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. Off to the side, he heard the old couple scream. A clatter behind him indicated that the nurse had jumped out of her chair. Someone started chanting under their breath. The pregnant woman nearly fainted.

"On the ground!" the gunman repeated, firing one warning shot into the roof. The room erupted in screams. "Except you, missy. And if anyone alerts anyone else, I'll shoot her unborn kid."

"My baby!" she squealed, protectively placing her arms around hers swollen stomach, her own injuries forgotten.

"Dad?" couched the boy beside him. "What are you—cough—doing!?"

"Quiet Damian."

Once everyone, minus the woman at gunpoint, was seated on the tiled floor, Gunman made the nurse seal the doors. Then he had her call for an evacuation and sealing off of the inner rooms, where, according to the old couple, two car accident victims were being treated for serious injuries. John could hear sirens outside. By this time, of course the police had been notified by someone who thought a locked A&E was suspicious.

"Is it cleared and locked?" Gunman asked the nurse.

The nurse was pale. "I-I-It should be-be." She replied. The poor woman had to be in her late-fifties, and was looking as if she might pass out at any minute.

"Fine." Gunman grabbed the nurse roughly and dragged her inside at gunpoint so that he could inspect for himself. "If anyone leaves, if anyone moves, I'll shoot her." He promised.

The hostages remained seated. After the gunman had passed into the other room, John turned to the boy. He was the only one who might know something. "What's your name, kid?"

"D-Damian Shoulter."

"And, Damian, what's going on?"

"I don't know." The boy whispered, hugging the lunchbox to his chest. "Dad just said he was taking me to the hospital to get better."

John swore he saw this in a movie once. "What's your name?" he asked the pregnant woman, who was massaging her belly while trying not to cry.

"Dominique Harris," she answered waveringly.

"And you?" John asked the old couple seated next to him.

"Ahmed and Jamila Fazal," the woman replied.

"I'm Cedric Walls and I want to know why we're not leaving." said the man. He was still holding a bloody tissue to his mouth, though he was holding back his coughs. "We can just use the kid as a hostage and—"

John shook his head, "He'll kill that nurse. And, if we just do what he wants, he'll let us go. Besides, you want to use a _kid_ as a hostage?"

"Oh, so now you're a cop." Cedric said sarcastically, waving the tissue around. "How do you know he won't hurt us?"

"I think he's right," Dominique said quietly, "Let's not force him to shoot. And if we do what he says, he's got no reason to hurt us, right?"

Ahmed turned to John, "Who are you?"

"John Watson."

Glancing at his attire, Cedric asked, "Are you a doctor?"

"Yes, but not at this hospital, I was here with—"

The door slid open, Damian, who was so quiet this whole time, hopped up and watched as Shoulter Senior dragged the nurse in at gunpoint. Behind him, two doctors who apparently worked at this hospital, followed nervously. Without preamble, Shoulter told them in quick, clipped tones that he wanted the doctors to heal his son. He handed the pair a manila file.

"I-I'm a doctor," John piped up. "I can help, too." If he was standing, John reasoned, he might be able to be of use and get out of this situation.

Shoulter considered him for a moment. "Okay." He agreed with a sigh. With that, he herded all eight hostages and Damian into the inner room of the A&E and locked the door behind him. Everyone but the doctors and Damian was made to sit on the floor in a line against the wall furthest from the door. "Read the file," Shoulter said curtly, keeping the gun trained on Ahmed's head. John realized that the man had some type of training. Maybe he was military. Or a hunter. Damian watched wide-eyed from a corner, still clutching his lunchbox.

The three doctors obediently opened and scanned the documents. There were many of them. Twelve-year-old Damian Robert Shoulter was born with a weak immune system. His whole life had been centered around doctor's offices and hospitals—the flu, pneumonia, chicken pox, whooping cough, fever—and last year he had been diagnosed with a failing liver. Damian's doctor had written that only a transplant could save the child's life, but given his other conditions, he was not fit to receive one. The six other doctors the boy saw rejected him as well. They all agreed that at the most, it would add 3-6 months to his life expectancy…and they had set his expiration date at twelve-and-a-half years of age.

While John and the other two read, Ahmed Fazal turned to Shoulter, "What happened to the other patients in here? What did you do with them?"

Shoulter was surprised. He had expected them to keep silent. Shrugging, but without moving his gun, he replied "I dunno. They cleared the room. They're probably being treated in another place."

Jamila gasped and screeched, "But my grandson! My son! They're in critical condition!" She continued speaking rapidly in another language. From his time in Afghanistan, John understood "car", "baby", and "Allah". Poor woman.

"Shut up, or you'll be in critical condition!" Shoulter turned the gun to face her. She fell silent, but her lips were still moving. Ahmed took Jamila's hand in his, and like Dominique, the two of them started praying silently.

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**A/N: Please review? Please?**


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